


Alliance

by a_mere_trifle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Swords & Fencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro doesn't get to be the 'good guy' very often. Kid's gonna have to get real tough, real fast. But with Dave in this kind of trouble-- just this once, it's gotta be okay to help the kid out a bit...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alliance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://captchalogue.livejournal.com/1365.html?thread=1060181#t1060181) at captchalogue.
> 
> No, I am not entirely sure why I gave Bro psychic powers. XD

So it's a Thursday and you're finally home to chill out before the weekend starts; you oughta have some beer in the fridge, some frozen shit in the freezer behind the cherry bombs, you brought home some crappy fajitas from the least Mexican Mexican restaraunt in town. Like any other Thursday, and you're trying to get all the throwing stars out of the microwave when you realize Dave's not here.

Now, there could be reasons for that. Kid's growing up, needs a life of his own, still doesn't get out of the house a hell of a lot but he's got shit on the burners. Doesn't tend to happen on Thursday, though. And every time he's out, he leaves you a beautifully ironic message letting you know how long he'll be away.

Seems too Cleavers for the Strider family, you know, but there's two reasons for it: it's ironic as fuck, and you actually do want to keep tabs on the kid. Fuck knows you don't pay attention on your own, and even if taking care of him is something you're shitty at, it's your job.

So yeah, when you realize he's not here, you get kind of-- concerned. You take Cal under your arm, start combing the apartment just in case the kid's gotten better at stealth than you thought, and--

 _\--striding out through industrial halls, your brother under your other arm, you never thought you'd want to blow this place to hell as much as you did when you were a kid but now for a cheap beer you'd light it up so high and bright you could see it from space--_

You don't waste any more time, throwing open the door and trying to remember what the fuck shitty elementary school Dave's been drafted into. You've been there like twice a year, watching old white people glare at you and just _barely_ refrain from calling the cops, fucking lackwits with no idea what's going on, what's coming--

\--Yeah, you remember the way.

You kick open the double-doors; this isn't where you went to school but it looks fucking exactly the same, dull red paint replacing dull green. There's the sound of shittily-played instruments filling the halls, faint whistles and cries from outside. He wouldn't stay anywhere near the band if he had a choice, it's fucking painful to anyone with a hint of musicality; he sure as fuck isn't out there with the sports team, but you know he's here.

"Sir-- sir, unauthorized adults are not permitted on school property, particularly not after hours."

You ignore the brunette chick, scanning the halls; classrooms look empty, 'cept for the occasional club meeting. Dave doesn't do clubs.

"Sir-- oh, that is absolutely not allowed!!"

"What, puppets?" you ask, before remembering you've still got a katana strapped to your back. With a mental shrug, you decide to keep playing dumb anyway, as you scan the halls. Hard to hear anything over that damn band, off-tune, off-key, off-beat--

"Sir, if you do not leave right now I _will_ call the authorities!"

\--Actually, there's exactly one drum that's keeping something like a beat; and the closer you listen, the less it sounds like a drum.

You're at the end of the hallway before she can react; "Sir!" she yelps, but you're scanning the lockers, too-big and old-fashioned and nearly rusted shut. Third to the left; you don't bother checking the lock, you know how those little fuckers think. You draw your blade and swing, one neat cut severing the padlock, the work of a split second opening the door.

He nearly tumbles to the floor, but you catch him; he looks pale as fuck, knuckles bloody, scratched and bruised, 'cause he's still a fucking small kid but you have no idea how they managed to squeeze him into that locker. His breathing's heavy, but controlled, just barely; training paying off, you think, and nearly grimace.

Handling it fucking fantastic, but he's still shaking, and just for today you don't care about coddling him; you take him up under your other arm, storming past the fuckwit secretary or principal or whatever, who's too stunned to say another word.

You never thought you could hate this sort of shithole more than you did back when you were trapped in 'em seven hours a day, but right now-- for a cheap beer you'd blow the place so high and bright they'd see it from space.

Other than that, shit's practically normal. Ain't like your family ain't used to getting their asses kicked around; you let Dave bandage his cuts and warm up the food, tossing him a couple painkillers to take along with it. You've eaten a lot of dinners like this before.

Only difference is, he's gone quiet. You can't tell what he's thinking, maybe you're too pissed off to really try. Right now you can't think of anything you'd like more than to find out where those little punks live, punch their parents, and hang them by their tiny soiled underwear from the tallest building in town. But life's not fair, so that's no option, for a whole shitload of reasons.

There's gotta be something, though, you think, as he tosses his paper plate in the trash and heads for his room, without a word. No such thing as fair but you've been dicked around since before the universe was born, and this is such a small, small, _small_ thing. How can you make a better world if you've never even seen what it might be like?

 _\--hiding behing the bushes, hidden enough to allow yourself a genuine vicious smirk as the little bastards are led out, a couple in tears, swearing up and down they have no idea what's going on-- and that's a masterpiece of irony, the little fuckers actually don't--_

Oh, yeah; that'll do it. "Hey, kid," you say, just as he's opening the door. He turns, without a word, head tilted, looking up at you. (That's what it is about kids that gets people, you think; when they look up to you.)

"Password's 'caldfwich'," you tell him.

"...Password to what? And how the fuck do you spell that?"

You just shrug. "You'll figure it out." You turn away, and pause as another thought occurs to you. "Ring me up when you need me to make the call."

"Wha...?"

Even now, there's only so much help you're gonna give him; you just walk away, trying to remember whether it was Eric or Jose who had all the voice-altering equipment. Usually you wouldn't worry about getting caught, but these days, a "pervert" website and two citations on your ass, you can't afford to take chances.

Kid's smart, and he's been snooping through your shit for years; doesn't take him long to figure out that the password's to one of your tamer puppet servers, and it doesn't take him long to come up with a plan. You hear the printers going, and you smile to yourself; this is gonna be good.

THe next day, he gives you a signal a couple hours in-- second period, you think, or third, or do they even have those yet? Whatever. Turned out it was Carl who had some voice-altering shit, and he's loading a copy on your phone while you tell the cops in your best old-lady voice that you're _positive_ you saw those little boys dealing drugs. You sell it hard and long, and by the end they're lapping it up like the bitches they are, and Carl tosses you your phone back as you head for the school to watch the fireworks.

You find a tall row of bushes, more than enogugh to hide a guy with your skills, close enough to watch it all go down. Wouldn't surprise you if there were drugs in the little shits' lockers, but people being assholes, it's the M-rated marionettes that are really gonna chap their little asses.

And it's a while, but it isn't long, before cars are pulling up behind the cop cars, mortified parents leading out equally mortified little shits out to their while middle-class cars. You're hidden enough to allow yourself a genuine vicious smirk as you watch them, a couple in tears, swearing up and down they have no idea what's going on-- and that's a masterpiece of irony, the little fuckers actually don't, never have and never fucking will.

No idea what's going on. Not a fucking clue what's coming.

Now, that's all well and good; but you know you can't leave it at that. Fuckers know exactly who set them up, and while Dave needs all the training in ambushes he can get, fighting these little shits won't teach him a thing. Sure, douchebags are douchebags across space and time, but the ones he's gonna be facing aren't gonna be as petty and scared and distractable as these shits are gonna be. So you're gonna end this here and now, 'cause the kid's plate is full enough as it is without this bullshit.

You've gotta call in a couple favors to get their names, but you can't imagine anything better to call 'em in on. Two of 'em are on Pesterchum, another you can only get on the phone, but you send them all the same message: _You want to get your own back? Meet me on the rooftop after school._

You add the address, and a link to Google Maps just to be a dick; it's not your own rooftop, this time, 'cause you don't want the little shits knowing where you live. This time, you're going back where it all started.

By the time you're done, you only have to wait a couple minutes before the school bell rings; you wait 'til he's mostly alone before firing the note into the tree.

BRO.

SCHOOL ROOF. NOW.

BRING YOUR SWORD.

You wait 'til you hear him start to swear before you throw his sword at his feet.

You beat him to the rooftop, of course; you've got Cal sitting behind you and your sword unsheathed in your hand. "The fuckin' school?" he asks, even as he settles into his stance. "We're not gonna get caught?"

You don't answer; you just beckon him forward, and the game is on.

You wonder if he notices any difference between this and your usual bouts. There isn't much, really; it'd take someone who knows his shit to see it. You're being flashier than usual. You're going a little slower, flourishing your sword in impractical ways.

Ha, there it is, he's frowning; you can see him wondering whether to press this advantage or to follow your lead. That's something you've gotta break him of, someday, following your lead, but you don't dare push him too far out of your shadow while being your shadow is keeping him alive.

You feint, dodge, feint again, and the little shits help solve his problem my clambering noisily up the fire escape.

You glance at them, not pausing; lead douchebag brought a baseball bat, thinking it might help him. What a dumbass.

Dave sees it a couple seconds after you do; and after that, you can see it only takes him one more to realize what's going on. You take advantage of that second, ruthlessly, flourishing and feinting, and this time he does follow your lead, pulling every useless sword move that Hollywood taught the little dumbshits were impressive. You nearly laugh, this is almost properly fun for once; choreography, a dance, call-and-response, and the kid's starting to get _good_.

Not a minute too soon.

You let it go on for a while, getting more and more stupidly acrobatic-- you even pull a couple fucking backflips, just for fun, and for the better view it gives you of the kids' stunned faces, the lead kid's baseball bat clattering to the ground. A couple more ridiculous maneuvers, one you stole from The Princess Bride-- and like you'd fucking rehearsed it, you both turn toward the little douchebags, as one.

"Huh," you say. "Audience?"

Dave grins. "Practice," he says, flipping his sword outward, and the fuckers cut and _run_.

And yeah, scared assholes can be dangerous assholes; but these, you think, are too scared to ever fuck with either of you again. You flip your sword back into its scabbard, more satisfied than you can remember feeling for a long, long time.

"Hey," says Dave.

You look back at him; he's shuffling his feet a bit, but he's staring you right in the eyes. "...Thanks," he says.

You flip him a little salute that could easily pass for ironic before you jump off the building.

It takes you about half an hour before you realize that you're happier than you've been in months. And, when you think about it, you know why.

You've been fighting with him all his life. It's a fucked-up way to raise a kid, and you know it, but the storm's coming up fast, and you'd rather have him fucked up than dead. So you've trained him up for it, eery fucking day, pitting yourself against him every second you've got 'till it comes.

Even if it's all for him-- you've never fought on the same side as him before. And it was fucking fantastic.

 _Will it ever happen again?_ you wonder, and--

 _\--fire-hot and bright, dark shape up ahead, start of another battle but suddenly you're not alone--_

\--maybe it will. You grin up at the afternoon sky, open about it just this once, because you're gonna fight by his side again, and that's the best thing you'd ever dare ask for.


End file.
